The Striker (49 page)

His father was the only one at the table who knew that the keeper of the former MacDougall stronghold—Arthur Campbell—was one of Eoin's brethren in the Highland Guard. Together Eoin and Campbell would be able to deal with any threat from the man who'd once been the most powerful in the “Kingdom” of the Isles.

The meeting broke up and the warriors left to attend to their duties. Having offered to pen the note to Bruce, Eoin didn't notice that one had stayed behind until he spoke.

“I'll go with you,” Fin said.

Eoin looked up, his expression a hard mask. “That won't be necessary.”

“But what about your knee?”

“I'm taking a skiff, not running. Besides, it's almost healed.”

“Does that mean you'll be picking up a sword again soon?” Fin said with a grin. “I've been waiting for our rematch.”

Eoin gripped the quill until his fingertips turned white. Fin's “everything is fine” attitude grated on his already stretched-to-the-breaking-point temper.

“You will have it,” Eoin promised darkly. Last time he'd held back, but this time he'd grind his friend into the dirt.

“What the hell is the matter with you? Does this have something to do with your wife? I've stayed away from her as you asked. I thought we were past this. I told you I was sorry. I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing.”

“How about what you were saying?” Eoin snapped. But seeing Fin's confusion and realizing Margaret wouldn't want him talking about this, he shook his head. “Just leave it.”

Fin stood there a minute staring at him. “I would, but I don't think you can. I don't understand it. After what she did, how can you forgive her? How can you bring her back here when she
betrayed
you?”

Eoin's teeth were grinding again. He knew Fin was only voicing what many others were thinking. It had taken Eoin a few days to notice the subtle coldness toward his wife by some of his clansmen. Highlanders had long memories and would not soon forget that she was a MacDowell and that she'd left him. And like Fin, a number of his father's
meinie
knew that she'd betrayed him at Loch Ryan.

“The same could be said of you, and yet here you are.”

She was his wife, damn it. And his best friend had tried to have his way with her.

Fin's face reddened and something hard flashed in his eyes. “She got her vengeance though, didn't she? You weren't here, I nearly lost a bollock because of her.”

“You would have lost them both had I been here.”

Fin stared at him, his jaw clamped tightly as if he were fighting to hold back something. “I told you I was drunk.”

Was that an excuse? Maybe he hadn't forgiven him as much as he said he had. Eoin drew a deep breath. Though he didn't owe his foster brother an explanation, he gave him one. “It was more complicated than I realized. Margaret thought she was helping me.”

Fin didn't hide his disbelief. “So you trust her again?”

Eoin didn't answer; he didn't have one. “She's my wife, and the mother of my son.”

Fin stiffened, although Eoin hadn't meant it as a dig. Marjory's recent miscarriage after years of not being able to have a child had been heartbreaking for all of them, but Fin had taken it the hardest. He seemed to take offense if even the word “child” or “babe” was mentioned—as if there was some implied criticism of him.

“So forgive and forget, is that it? Well, have care that the lass doesn't learn something to betray you again. What are you going to tell her about Campbell?”

Eoin's eyes narrowed. He knew Fin was curious about his place in Bruce's army and all the disappearances that he refused to explain, but how much had he guessed? Did he suspect what he and Campbell did or was it just a general question? “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just be careful. Her father has probably joined forces with Lorn.”

Apparently it was just a general warning this time. But at others, Eoin could swear that Fin suspected the truth.

Margaret wasn't the only one hurt by Eoin's keeping her in the dark. It had affected his friendship with Fin as well. Maybe just as much as Margaret had come between the foster brothers, Eoin's secret life had as well.

And that was his fault.

Margaret's words this morning came back to him: “
I don't want there to be any secrets between us . . . It cannot work otherwise
.”

Their conversation had troubled him more than he wanted to admit. He knew she was right, but what the hell was he going to do about it? How was he going to continue to keep her in the dark about his place in Bruce's army? Secrets had torn them apart all those years ago. Were they destined to repeat the same mistakes?

Damn Bruce. How could Eoin get his marriage in order if he couldn't tell her anything? All the other wives knew what their husbands did. Did she not have a right to as well? Could he keep something that was so important to him from her?

As before, he was in an untenable position. The difference was that this time he knew it could not work. He could not leave for weeks and expect her not to ask questions. He couldn't expect her trust, love, and loyalty and give her nothing in return.

But could he trust her after what had happened? Surprisingly, he wanted to. Looking back, he realized that much like him she'd been in an impossible situation. He'd given her enough information to be dangerous, but not enough to make the right decision. Did he wish that she hadn't admitted his presence to her friend? Without a doubt. He'd been clear in his instructions, but he couldn't blame her for doing what she did—her motivations had been pure.

If anyone was to blame, it was him. He'd put her in that impossible position by not telling her what he was doing there. But his damned cousin had given him little choice.

“Let me worry about my wife,” Eoin said, guilt taking some of the edge from his words. Fin had put one wall between their friendship, but Eoin had put the other. “Besides, she doesn't exactly have a way of contacting her father—if she even knew where he was.”

Before Fin could reply, Eoin glanced to the doorway and saw Eachann watching them. How long had he been standing there?

“I'm sorry,” the boy said. “The chief”—he'd thus far refused to call him Grandfather—“said the meeting was over. I can come back if you want to play another time.”

Damn it, the game! Eoin had almost forgotten. “Nay,” he said quickly—and probably too eagerly, “We are finished here.”

The missive to Bruce could wait.

Fin nodded to Eoin and then greeted Eachann with a smile and cheerful hello. But Eoin didn't miss the flash of pain—and something else?—that crossed his face when he first saw the boy standing there.

There was an awkward moment of silence after Fin left, where Eoin tried to figure out what to say. He didn't want to say anything wrong or come on too strong. The lad was as skittish as a foal where he was concerned.

He wasn't the only one. Bloody hell, how could a five-year-old have him so tongue-tied?

The boy shuffled his feet, and Eoin realized he was staring. He stood and went to the sideboard to fetch the set. “Your mother said you were a good player.” He tucked the board under his arm and gathered the pieces in his hands. “She said you can already beat her.”

When Eachann didn't say anything right away, Eoin turned to find him apparently mulling his words. “Aye, but . . .” He let his words fall off. “She can add more sums than me in her head. I can only remember five or six. She can do up to ten.”

Eoin grinned. His son had the makings of a fine statesman. He put down the board and started setting down the pieces. “I don't think your mother really ever took to the game.”

Eachann met his gaze conspiratorially, and the tentative smile he gave him a moment later made Eoin's chest squeeze as if it were in a vise.

“She's too impatient,” Eachann said. “And—”

“Always wants to go on the attack,” Eoin finished for him.

Eachann's tentative smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Eoin felt like he'd just swallowed a ray of sunshine.

“Mother made you a set, too?” Eachann said, picking up one of the beautifully carved and painted pieces.

“Nay, I found it in . . .”
Oban
, he finished to himself, as the truth hit him. He'd seen the set in a shop in Oban about six months after Margaret left. It was the only one of its kind, the owner had said. A priest had brought it in to barter for some goods.

That's how she'd left, he realized. He'd always wondered how she'd found the money to leave so quickly.

Eoin picked up one of the pieces, seeing every loving stroke that she'd put into it, feeling his throat tighten.

“Aye,” he said gruffly after a long pause, noticing that Eachann was watching him with a puzzled look on his face. “She made it for me.”

He'd just never been here for her to give it to him.

“Is something wrong?” Eachann asked.

Eoin took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to clear the emotion from his lungs and throat. But the regret burned. He wondered if it would ever stop. “Nay, now are you ready to show me what you've got? I won't go easy on you.”

A countenance that was every bit as grave as his own looked back at him. “I won't go easy on you either.”

Eoin grinned. “Good to know. I guess I've been warned.”

After a dozen moves, Eoin realized it was a good thing, and he'd better focus if he didn't want to be trounced by a five-year-old.

“The linens are changed on Fridays and washed on Saturdays,” the maidservant said unhelpfully. “They'll be checked for tears and mended then.”

Margaret tried to rein in her temper, but why must every request—no matter how small—be met with resistance?

She smiled. “I just thought that since I noticed a small tear in the bedsheet, I might borrow some of the thread that matches and tend to it now.”

“Today is Wednesday,” the woman said obstinately.

Margaret gritted her teeth, her smile faltering. “Yes, I'm aware of that.”

“Is there a problem?”

Both women jumped a little at the sound of Eoin's voice behind them. He'd seemingly materialized in the corridor out of nowhere.

She frowned at him for sneaking up on her, but then noticed his expression. Putting a hand on his arm, she silently begged him not to interfere. “No,” she said brightly, glancing at the flushing servant. “No problem. Morag and I were just discussing the linen schedule.”

Clearly Eoin wanted to say something more, but with a furious tightening of his mouth he deferred to her wishes. He nodded, which Morag took as a dismissal, scurrying down the stairs as if she couldn't get away fast enough.

“I think you frightened her,” Margaret said wryly.

“Good,” he said with a dark glare down the stairwell, where Morag had disappeared. His gaze turned back to hers. “They really were horrible to you, weren't they?”

It wasn't as much a question as an acknowledgment.

A half smile turned her mouth. “I grew a thick skin. It was easier once I realized they didn't hate me—they hated that I was a MacDowell.”

“You were my wife,” he said bitterly.

It hadn't been enough—then. “It's better now. Your mother is making an effort for Eachann.”

“And for you.” He paused. “I wasn't exactly happy when I learned you had left. When she suggested that maybe it was for the best, I let her know in no uncertain terms just how wrong she was.” He shook his head. “Christ, I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't want to believe it. Hell, maybe I
couldn't
believe it.”

Her brows furrowed. “I don't understand.”

“I had so many things pulling me the other way, how could I have left you? I needed you to be somewhere where I thought you were safe.”

So he could concentrate on what he needed to do. Strangely she understood. “It's different now,” she said. “Eachann will help. We both just need to give it time.”

He seemed to understand that she was asking him not to interfere. He nodded, but he didn't look happy about it.

“Speaking of our son,” he said. “You were right about his skill with a chessboard. It's remarkable for one so young.”

“Did he beat you, too?” She couldn't hide her delight at the prospect.

He lifted a brow. “Of course not. But I did have to pay attention.”

“Which is more than you can say for me, is that it?”

He gave her a lopsided grin that would have made her breath catch, if she wasn't so outraged.

“I didn't say that.”

She scowled. “But you were thinking it.”

He just shrugged and his grin broadened. “He liked my chess set. Actually, he said it looked like his.” He pulled something out of his sporran and handed it to her. “Does it look familiar?”